


The Equal Opportunity Club

by Captain_Panda



Series: Growing Pains [4]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Chivalry is Dead; Long Live Chivalry, Chivalry is not dead, Flirting, Gen, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: Tony Stark may be a playboy, but he respects women. Steve Rogers will believe it when he sees it.Meanwhile, equal opportunity flirting is the best thing since sliced bread in Tony Stark's world.Takes place shortly afterIron Man 3but beforeThe Winter Soldier.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Growing Pains [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707091
Comments: 26
Kudos: 177





	The Equal Opportunity Club

**Author's Note:**

> Ironically, this is not the fourth installment I had planned, so I still have "Part 4" and "Part 5" in mind, but I'm pleased with how this turned out and I hope you'll enjoy it, too!
> 
> -Cap'n Panda

“You two make a lovely couple.”

“You know,” Steve drawled, sitting on one of two hotel beds in Washington, D.C. and sifting through a stack of S.H.I.E.L.D. mission papers, “it’s a great wide world out there, Tony. I’m sure you could find a fish.”

Blinking, Tony sauntered into the room, looked out the window, and demanded, “Did you just tell me to get _fucked_?”

Steve’s ears flushed bright red, but he didn’t look up from his paperwork as he said sternly, “ _No_ , I told you to go _fishing_. And quit oglin’ your teammates. She’s a brilliant woman and she doesn’t need you—”

“Defending my honor?” Natasha cut in, her voice cool and sweet, like a snow leopard coming in for the kill, quiet heavy paws resting on snow. Amazingly subtle. “Sweet of you.” Sweeping an overly proprietary hand once through Steve’s hair to make him blush more fully, she added, “We both know Stark can’t fish.”

Making an affronted noise—not entirely sure who he was more offended by—Tony said, “Excuse you, I am an excellent fisher, I was merely listening to the advice of my extremely empowered CEO. Who is a woman. Is _your_ CEO a woman?”

“I _am_ a woman,” Natasha drawled, wandering over to the closet area and unzipping her catsuit jacket. “I think I win more brownie points.”

“The suffragettes would be so proud,” Steve drawled, gaze permanently affixed on the folders in front of him. “Can we focus here? I thought—”

“No, no, this is important,” Tony cut in, holding up a hand, _be still_ , because it wasn’t every day that a gorgeous woman progressively strode around topless, after all. “Although,” he added mournfully, as Natasha pointedly slipped into the attached bathroom with an audible _clicking_ of the door—not locked, he noted with pleased amusement, “this does make me reflect strongly on that _coed_ rule—”

Steve sighed deeply. “Tony,” he began, the word laden and deep, like a footfall breaking through ice, none of the snow tigress finesse that Natasha exuded, why was _this_ the fish he was lining for, anyway? “Tony,” Steve reprimanded, sensing he wasn’t listening—not inaccurately, Tony conceded, gaze still planted hopefully on the bathroom door. “You are not to flirt with your teammates. That’s an order.”

The _order_ was so absurd he actually deigned it with a response: “Feeling slighted?”

“What?”

“That’s what this is really about? Equality?” Flicking his gaze at Steve—and vowing to shoot him with a paintball gun if he missed anything _important_ while meeting the old timer’s scowl—he deadpanned, “Honey, I don’t date older men.”

Steve’s reaction was gratifyingly obvious: his face flushed deeper red, his scowl became even more pronounced, and he looked on the verge of stating several obvious and completely reasonable counterpoints when Natasha emerged, dressed down in streetwear. “You boys having fun?”

“Loads,” Steve grunted, returning to his paperwork. “Can’t imagine anything I’d rather be doing.”

“I can,” Natasha said, making him let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Tempted to leave both’a you to cool off,” he grumbled. “Back in my day—”

“Pay up,” Tony demanded, immediately, thrusting out a hand at Romanoff, who rolled her eyes but, dutifully, arched an eyebrow and fished out a twenty-dollar bill.

Steve growled, “ _Out_.”

Saluting them with his twenty, Tony said, “With pleasure.” Just before the door shut behind him, he added, “They don’t call me a genius for nothing.”

Congratulating himself on his incredible interpersonal skills, Tony waltzed off down the hallway whistling _Yankee_ _Doodle_ , fancying himself the only playboy in the world to be paid _by_ a beautiful woman.

Equality.

* * *

Tony wasn’t _lonely_ : he was _sub-optimally engaged_. 

With Pepper running Stark Industries, he had somehow expected her to remain available to him for more than one hour a week, but upon wry (and only moderately intoxicated) reflection, he could appreciate that he had been scarcely better at the helm. Even a ruthless time cruncher like Obadiah Stane had scarcely had seconds to spare for anyone who made less than two million dollars a year. It was the nature of the job: it demanded.

It was good that she took it so seriously, he thought. Healthy for the company, reassuring for its thousands of employees. It was good that she had no qualms putting off a weekly meeting with him for three weeks to take care of the business first—the business should always come before interpersonal relationships, with a good leader in charge. 

It was also probably healthy for the future of their relationship, after the whole _terrorists attacked our home_ fiasco, to take some time apart. Let her breathe and let him get his feet underneath him. Being caught unprepared had left him unsteady, and he needed some time to renormalize. If it was cosmic punishment for him to be _sub-optimally engaged_ , then perhaps it was not undeserved.

The only problem was, having voluntarily surrendered almost all control of his company, he found himself without much to _do_ , other than tinker with the suits. And he could tinker with them, gladly, for sixteen hours a day, before his hands cramped up and his back ached so hard he thought he might cry. 

But it didn’t fill the hole in his chest that yearned to speak to a human person and feel the warmth of conversational light reflected back upon him. He felt cold and adrift, lost at sea, counting the days. 

_Day seven. Still no contact with the outside world. Dum-E remains my most loyal friend. J.A.R.V.I.S. thinks I need a companion animal_. He found himself dangerously close to making small talk with inanimate objects to upkeep his need to hear his own voice in space-and-time, to prove that _I was here today_. He spoke to himself and sweet-talked his machines and told himself it was not crazy because it was human nature to externalize thoughts to process them.

Even so, the situation was rapidly becoming intolerable. He found himself thinking more and more about his own company and all its interesting contacts, and catastrophizing about the inevitable: how soon would it be before someone less neurotic filled the space formerly allotted to him in Pepper’s life? 

He wasn’t the biggest fish in the sea. Having turned over his own company, he couldn’t even claim to be the richest man in the world anymore, his net worth taking a substantial hit (while Pepper’s experienced a commensurate rise). He was a genius, but intelligence plateaued sharply in evolutionary value: smart individuals were charming, interesting, and good conversationalists, but _overly_ smart individuals were abrasive, overbearing, and out of touch. 

He was still Tony Stark, the world’s most iconic superhero, but there were days when it felt like an aging currency, with novelties like Thor and the Hulk drawing fresh eyes to the potential of _real_ superhumans.

Feeling duly disheartened, he found himself drawn to the impossibly ironic situation of staring at his phone and wondering if he would ever swallow his pride enough to admit _I am sub-optimally engaged, would you like to assist me?_ Synonyms were so much easier than emotionally loaded equivalents, he thought, hands folded under his chin, holding his breath, refusing to budge an inch, terrified he _would_ touch his phone. 

He had a _reputation_ to uphold. He was not desperate. 

At least he had an out: Rhodey was always just one call away. Just one six-hour time-zone call away, Tony amended—he was in Berlin for the month, having a lovely time, if the pictures he sent back were anything to go by. It didn’t matter if he was an hour’s drive or half a world away—he made time for Tony. Nearly as busy as Pepper between the Pentagon and his emerging role as the Iron Patriot, Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes still possessed the charming capacity to jeopardize everything _important_ to make sure _Tony Stark_ was okay. Tony loved him to death, but he would not call him unless it was an actual emergency. They saw each other regularly enough; he would survive, and he would not harangue the poor man at four in the morning, local.

He had literally hundreds of contacts, representing every continent—and he was one of the few people on the planet, maybe the _only_ person on the planet, who meant it—but mostly they were names and keys to countless doors. It wasn’t quite Machiavellian—he skimmed through the list and _knew_ these people, could recall most of their faces and easily engage them in relevant conversations; would respond to their calls in a heartbeat, provide favors at the drop of a hat, he didn’t give his personal number out to _anyone_ —but they were far from the companions that he felt comfortable calling at ten PM on a Friday night because he might go crazy in his own head.

He considered the handful of people he _could_ call, spinning the phone idly on the table. Bruce was his go-to guy, his _let’s grab a pizza and talk tritium_ companion, but he wasn’t in the mood for an intellectually stimulating conversation. It felt like a _means to an end_ , a wonderful way to occupy six hours of time and _make_ something—admittedly, he still didn't trust Bruce to actually handle his tools, let alone the suits, but he was comfortable with him in his lab space, and that was a step in the right direction—but he longed for the kind of _I just need to talk_ rapport that he’d taken for granted with Pepper.

Was that self-absorbed? He swallowed and let his phone spin to a halt. He entertained calling Thor, but Thor _might_ shout his ear off—he had a feeling no one _had_ explained how phones worked to him, but he thought he might be even sadder if Thor _did_ know. It would be even worse if the unthinkable happened: if Thor _ignored_ him. There would be a million good reasons to do so—everything from _off-world_ to _couldn’t slide the little bar thingy_ —but he wasn’t used to groveling in the first place, and he doubted his pride could take the blow of a voicemail. 

(Besides, he thought, somewhat abysmally, presuming Thor did answer, what would _they_ talk about— _Battleship?_ )

For the same responsive reason, he shelved Barton—according to his S.H.I.E.L.D. files, he was a chronically early riser—and, shuddering at the mere thought, Romanoff, who would surely take a visceral pleasure in watching him squirm. At least once. She might take pity on him, call back, because clearly Tony Stark would be desperate to call _her_ , but at that point he might have spontaneously dissolved into ash.

No—no, he would simply have to wait until Rhodey returned to the states and their paths intersected or Pepper deigned to live with him again. Hell, he’d take Happy breathing down his neck, insisting on checking the perimeter at two in the morning, nearly giving him a heart attack—except, no, he wouldn’t, he resigned, pinching his brow. Happy always meant well, but there were only so many jump scares Tony could take on a regular basis.

That left— _one_ option. It was a hell of a score to settle. He didn’t want to give the wrong impression, not for a second. _This doesn’t mean we’re friends_. Sure, Steve had called him first, he wanted the record to reflect that, but that was after Tony had very publicly gone missing after a terrorist attack on his home. It was a perfectly justifiable excuse. He had no such cover for his own yearning, and he wasn’t calling for a _mission report_.

Peeved, he stuffed his phone into his pocket, stood up, and fully intended to lose himself in a crowd somewhere, drink himself into enough of a stupor that he wouldn’t care about his problems for the rest of the night. It felt good knowing that the Mandarin was no longer at large, but it would have felt a hell of a lot better if he knew why he was protecting a life so unworth _living_.

 _Be more melancholy, I dare you_ , he grumbled.

He entertained harassing Fury, turning the tables— _equal opportunity_ ; serve him right for all the unsubtle hints that he should participate more in the Avengers’ Initiative, his absence in cleaning up the city wasn’t unnoticed—but decided it was just more salt on top of his sour mood. It wouldn’t make him feel better. He wasn’t even sure he _wanted_ to feel better.

But of course he did. So he did the most Tony Stark thing he could think of.

He showed up at Steve Rogers’ apartment.

It wasn’t a hole in a wall, which impressed Tony more than it should have. 

Tony had never known poverty, never lived on the edge—but Steve Rogers had. He’d lived on a societal edge, where a hundred bucks a month was extravagance and ten bucks could sustain seven people in the abjectest poverty, the tenement lifestyle. Very aware that Steve Rogers’ original apartment had cost thirty bucks a month to live in, Tony’s stomach twisted as he ascended in the quasi-rickety elevator, neither overly polished nor obscenely broken-down. S.H.I.E.L.D. had put up, at least, providing a place that wasn’t falling apart at the seams. 

Tony was oddly proud to see it, grateful that they weren’t depriving him with some bottom-of-the-barrel hovel. It wouldn’t be fitting of Captain America, but this was Steve Rogers they were dealing with—the middle-of-the-ranks soldier, the displaced 1940s transplant. Who cared where he holed up after hours? Never mind questions of deserving it—Tony could see how uncomfortable Steve Rogers was with the slightest opulence, how much he grimaced over above-and-beyond accommodations. Steve Rogers might’ve pushed for a cardboard box in the rain, but Fury had set him up.

The stench of damp wood and cranky metal was strong as he stepped out of the elevator. He was keenly aware that he didn’t have any sort of knife on him and he didn’t really belong here. Equal parts intruder and prey, he moved down the hallway, reading numbers off doors, wondering how many people knew they were living with Captain America, how many cared, how many could care less, focused on making a dime to pay for their rustic New York lifestyle. Money was blood in the real world. Here, it reeked of old blood, of—

“Hey, new guy.”

He jolted, a little too emphatically, caught off-guard, and whirled to face a bright-eyed young woman with beach-blonde hair, looking him over and observing, “Kind of late to be wandering in.”

“Here for a friend,” he clipped out, automatic, landing on his feet, refusing to yield an inch. “And you are?”

“Carter,” she replied, balancing a laundry basket on a hip and thrusting out a hand. “Sharon Carter.”

“Fascinating,” he replied, shaking her hand warmly and letting it go, offering only a slight, lukewarm smile in return. “Little late to be doing laundry, isn’t it?” he said, aware that it was no way to talk to a woman, let alone a beautiful woman who had a friendly enough smile, a sort of quiet reserve and mischief that made him edgy. She looked exactly like the sort of person who would smile, draw him close by the tie, and steal his wallet. He didn’t even have a tie, but he tucked a hand deeper in his pocket. Didn’t give a damn about his money, but he’d hate to lose his cards, especially his keycard. Nothing more embarrassing than paging security to _his own building_.

“Some of us have day jobs,” she said, almost dryly. Nodding towards her door, she added, “I’m 161.” Then, flashing the same medium rare smile, she added, “Need anything, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you, Sharon.” Hyper-aware that she was two doors down from Steve Rogers, he added, “Good night, Sharon.”

“Good night, Tony.”

Blinking, he tried to look less surprised as she sauntered off, the door clicking shut noisily behind her. _Huh. Not invisible._

Of course not, he chided himself, tugging on the collar of his t-shirt, supremely self-conscious. He hadn’t been _hiding_ , and while he never expected strangers on the street to know him, he still found it—vaguely disconcerting, like meeting someone who already knew his birthday. _That was my secret_. He said nothing, even though the urge to knock on her door and lie was on the tip of his tongue. 

Couldn’t he have secrets? Couldn’t he be _suave?_

He could, he thought, disgruntled, not quite storming over to Steve’s door but not dawdling in the slightest as he knocked on it, twice. No wasted breath or movement. He could almost hear an audible pause, and he made a point of checking his watch, debated pulling out his phone to text Rhodey, after all— _you won’t believe what I’m doing_ —when, after a long beat, he heard a latch, then a handle, heart beating fast in his chest. The door swung open, and there, in the flesh, stood Steve Rogers.

Shirtless.

He blinked at Tony, who hadn’t pried his own gaze higher than Steve’s collarbones, feeling a bubble of inadvertent laughter perilously close to his lips as he thought, _my eyes are up here_ , even as he stared, point-blank, at the Platonic ideal of sculpted chests. He reached out, entirely involuntarily, to confirm it was real. The dusting of golden hair seemed especially real and formerly unrealized, what S.H.I.E.L.D. agent would ever remark on it? Who would ever properly disclaim for future historians what true perfection _looked_ like? He was doing a service for humanity, really, by staring, cataloguing, memorizing. He wished he could draw, beyond the sharp lines and jagged edges he loved to use for Iron Man suit sketches, but no drawing would do it justice. Because Steve was _breathing_ , alive, and the flush of vitality—and a hint of more, Tony reflected, which was, he could be big enough to admit, his fault—was uncapturable. It was amazing. He was, quite simply, thunderstruck.

Steve didn’t bother with a how-do-you-do, reaching one bare arm forward—Tony followed the movement in mute wonder, because statues didn’t come to live, statues didn’t _move_ , and Steve Rogers had the kind of perfect proportions the Greeks spent lifetimes agonizing over, trying to capture for just one frozen second—and hooking it around his own clothed arm, hauling him forcefully inside the, nicely appointed, decently sized apartment. Bit on the darker side, Tony thought, blinking as Steve clamped the door shut behind them and locked it. In the scarcely lit space, it was finally easier to focus on his face, at least, decidedly flushed. He seemed beyond words, which was fine by Tony, who, glad that they’d reached this mutually agreeable point, promptly put both hands on his pecs. Wow.

“Stark,” growled Steve, but he just stared at his own hands, somewhat amazed, somewhat lost, because how was _this_ his life? Literal perfection, at his fingertips. It made the laugh bubble out of his throat anyway, and he could feel—literally feel—the tension in Steve’s form, but he wasn’t bunched up to sock Tony in the jaw, which, given the fact that his shoulders were the size of _bowling balls_ , would probably kill Tony. What a way to go. “Knock it off,” Steve finally hissed, not loud but terse. 

Like the gentleman he secretly was, Tony promptly stepped back, hands up in a concessionary gesture. Realizing that might not be reassuring, he stuffed them back in his own pockets mournfully, the heat seemingly permanently imprinted on him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever touched Steve Rogers so much without a layer of clothing between them—had they even shaken _hands_?—and it amazed him how much heat he radiated.

Scientifically, it was amazing, but he knew he wasn’t speaking remotely scientifically when he said, with startling honesty, “You’re beautiful.”

And he was—more so because of the golden hair dusted across his chest, the way his hair was ruffled as he dragged a hair through it, cheeks blotchy with a blush, legs mournfully hidden from view by a pair of sweatpants. Couldn’t have everything. “Knock it off,” Steve grumbled a second time. “I swear to God, Stark, this has got to—”

“I’m not—being facetious,” Tony said, feeling suddenly small where he stood, strangely rejected. Right. Human perfection. He didn’t have to give Tony the time of day, and Tony needed to cool it. “I didn’t know you were shirtless,” he added, a touch defensively, trying to keep his tone purposeful, explanatory. “What if I was Sharon?”

“Sharon?” Steve said, brow furrowed. “Who’s Sharon?”

Ticking up an eyebrow, Tony replied, “Your pretty neighbor? Blonde, legs for days, probably kills men for a—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Steve ordered. “I don’t care what kinda—kinda _talk_ , you think I entertain,” he said, stalking off briefly and reappearing, mournfully with a shirt on, “but there’s no, no _line_ with you, don’t you have any _respect_?”

Blinking, surprised, Tony started, “Of course I do. I love women.” He resisted the urge to add, _And men. Equal opportunity_. He thought Steve might actually sock him, especially given his, indubitably unwelcome, overture. In Steve’s mind, it was probably just boundary-less flirting, which was good news—God only knew what kind of explosivity he’d be playing around with if he introduced anything beyond the white-picket-fence model of living.

Steve sighed, suddenly sounding more exasperated than angry as he ventured deeper into his apartment—nicely appointed but bare, Tony noticed, little more than what he needed to get by, the only keepsake the shield by the bedroom door, still open—and sat down at the kitchen table. He gestured with a hand and, wary but hopeful at being invited, Tony joined him, albeit at a safe distance, not scooting his chair into the table. Out of courtesy, he didn’t put his feet up on the table, grateful that he resisted the temptation a moment later—he may have toppled over at Steve’s next words: “I get it, you know, some guys, they don’t have a romp in the sheets, they’re dying. Go get laid. Stop bothering every dame you put your eyes on. All right?”

Squinting one eye shut, Tony rocked on his chair anyway, folding his arms over his chest contemplatively, and decided to fire a warning shot: “You really think I’m that shallow?”

To his credit, Steve looked chastened, but his tone was still level as he insisted steadily, “Look, guys like you—” He paused, which was good news—Tony wasn’t sure he wanted the fight that would ensue from that hostile starting point. “I know,” Steve said, faltered, then reordered, “I don’t know what you need, Tony. But I know you’re unhappy. And I’m not here to tell you how to live your life, but you need to fix it and leave the _team_ alone.”

“You?” Tony challenged, because the wording, _the team_ , something sat wrong with him, made him think, _maybe_ , made him hope, _please_. Because he was a gentleman, he’d back down—he knew harmless flirting when he saw it, knew Romanoff would tell him to go fuck himself and he would, he wasn’t about to make overtures where none were wanted—but the idea of cold stagnation, of sterile small talk, was oddly disheartening, like a door in the face. _I thought we were getting somewhere_.

“I don’t care,” Steve said wearily, maybe a touch beleaguered but truthful, unaware of the vise that loosened in Tony’s chest at his words, at the strange warmth that they inspired paired with the equally confused revelation of, _Wait, what?_ “I don’t. But—” He frowned, reaching up to rub a hand over the back of his neck briefly, looking conflicted. “You shouldn’t—well, you shouldn’t crowd a woman,” he insisted, firmly, like that was established fact.

“Can I crowd you?” Tony cut in, brisk, _to hell with it_ , attaching action to word as, bold as the day he announced to the world he was Iron Man, he stretched an arm across the table, curved a hand around Steve’s.

He honestly expected Steve to retract his hand, get angry, _can we not have a conversation without you making a joke?_ But Steve didn’t get angry or retract his hand. He barely hesitated, turning his palm over and squeezing Tony’s hand firmly, warmly, and it made Tony’s throat tighten with how much the simple, warm, genuine contact made something in his tumultuous thoughts _settle_. He felt his heartbeat steady, even as the silence dragged on.

Finally, in a different tone altogether—softer, more conversational, devoid of anger—Steve said, “You’re just looking for a friend anywhere you can find one, aren’t you?”

Tony was glad the apartment was dark—barely lit by the moonlight, the only illumination superhuman Captain America needed after hours—because it struck so deep in his chest it made his eyes burn. If he’d been caught too in the open, he knew he would have thrown it right back in his face, would have diverted, would have used any barb he could find to make it hurt too much to focus on the real conversation, but he wasn’t in the open. The apartment was dark, and Steve’s hand was comfortingly heavy, curled around his, a promise as much as a presence.

So instead of the million angry retorts, he offered a single non-answer: “Isn’t everyone?”

It was, oddly enough, the right answer. At least, it was according to Steve’s reaction: he squeezed Tony’s hand, once, a warm quick gesture that felt natural and unprovoked, like they were friends. And they were, Tony thought: friends came over at midnight in desperate need of companionship. Friends talked. 

Friends _wanted_ the way he wanted. 

Some friends did.

Steve stood, releasing him, and that was a tragedy, but before he could mourn it, Steve offered, “You drink coffee?” and it was an invitation as much as anything, and if he’d offered boxed wine, Tony would have said yes.

He forgot all about Sharon and Natasha as they drank Steve’s heavy black coffee and Tony showed him pictures of Rhodes and himself on various trips around the world, small-talking and talking until he felt like he could breathe again. And Steve listened with patience and abundant interest, never once expressing the remotest interest in the clock on the wall nor the slightest fatigue. Better still, he let Tony shuffle close, dragging his chair over until they were hip to hip, and he could lean into him, and almost doze.

He was almost hungover by the time morning light warmed the space, head spinning a little. He refused to believe that it had actually been three days since he had last slept, because he had been so sure that he had given in on _Friday_ , but his phone said it was _Sunday_ , which meant he had, in fact, wasted the entirety of Friday in a fugue lab state again, letting Thursday bleed over, and where did the days go? Steve just confirmed, “Been a long weekend, huh?”

He was already in a bit of a dream state when he replied, “Can I sleep on your couch?”

Steve hesitated, standing in white shirt and gray sweatpants in the full light of dawn, rubbing the back of his neck slowly before replying, “It’s terrible.” Tony thought it was a dismissal, felt his heart sink, but then he said, “I was plannin’ on hitting the gym. Bed’s free.”

Tony was sure he could have argued more spiritedly, could have said, _I_ could _walk home, I just thrive on inconveniencing you_ , but the thought of walking to the apartment _door_ seemed unbearable, let alone the elevator, and nothing beyond seemed in the remotest realm of possibility. So he face-planted on Steve Rogers’s unmade bed with barely a thought of, _I am in Steve Rogers’ bed_.

The last thing he was aware of was Steve tugging his shoes off for him and tucking a blanket over his back and a passing inclination: _Sweet of you_.


End file.
